O is for Older


Yesterday was my birthday. I know, I know, your card must have gotten lost in the mail. It’s alright. I had plenty of celebrations- an amazing dinner on Friday night, a sing-along party on Saturday (don’t hate.) and another dinner last night. I got a birthday song from Lily and gorgeous prints of some pictures she took and all is right with the world.

But here’s the thing about having a birthday. Yes, it means you get lots of posts on your facebook wall. And you get presents and you get to eat cupcakes and not feel bad. But it also means you get older.

Of course we’re always getting older. I’m getting older as I write this. And you’re getting older as your read. But the number changes.

And I wish I could find some significance to this.

But I can’t.

Yesterday I turned 38. And I would love it if this provided any sort of information other than the fact that I have been alive for 38 years. I wish I could find some identity in this number. But there is none.

I am friends with a lot of people in their twenties. A lot of things in our lives are similar.And I’m friends with people in their thirties. And a lot of things in our lives are similar. And I’m friends with people in their forties. And, well, you get the idea.

I’m fairly accomplished for my age. And I look younger than I really am. (Not a humble brag. Or any kind of brag. Just a fact. Good genes.) And I’m teeny tiny, so people perceive me as younger. (Which makes me laugh. Because Estelle Getty was teeny tiny too.) But I’ve always been sort of an old soul. Last week I was at a dinner party at the Ritz-Carlton. And yesterday I was chatting on the phone about boys with my 22-year-old girlfriend. I’m a Mom. But I’m also a daughter.

So it looks like I’ll have to look elsewhere to find my identity. Because the number 38 just doesn’t have much to say to me.

Next year, though. I make no promises concerning my healthy approach to my birthday.

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